


trajectory

by say_pal



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Bad Decisions, Canonical Character Death, Child Death, Double Penetration in Two Holes, Gender Dysphoria, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Menstruation, Oral Sex, Rebound Sex, Trans Gavin Reed, Trans Male Character, Trans Porn by Trans People, Work In Progress, grown-ass men who don't know how to talk about feelings, hank anderson does not know how to deal with grief, referenced past suicide attempt, there is so much awkwardness in this, this is just gonna get more and more tags as it goes on and i'm sorry, tina chen and gavin reed are disaster gays, warning: you might get second-hand embarrassment from these two idiots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-21
Updated: 2019-03-08
Packaged: 2019-06-30 11:52:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15751122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/say_pal/pseuds/say_pal
Summary: two lost pieces of very different puzzles try to fit together, and it somehow works.(work in progress; this starts off with a one-night-stand and will develop into an actual relationship and complex emotions in future chapters, so you've been warned if that's not your thing.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> gavin reed is trans and you can't convince me otherwise. i don't make the rules, that's just how it is.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it doesn't take long after the funeral for every little thing to add up, so hank isn't surprised when he's left alone. what does surprise him is that when he gets sent gavin reed for a temporary babysitter, he's not actually all that upset about it.

_“Reed!”_ _  
_ _  
_ Gavin almost trips scrambling from feet-on-desk to hustling towards Fowler’s office. That tone is never good, even if Gavin can’t strictly recall anything he’s done to get himself in trouble in the last few days.  
  
He sticks his head in the door. “Yeah?”  
  
Fowler waves him in. “Close the door and sit down.” 

Shit.  
  
Gavin does as told.  
  
“Allison just walked out,” Fowler says.  
  
In the span of about two seconds, Gavin’s expression goes from confusion, to realisation, to vague horror. “Anderson?” he ventures.  
  
By way of confirmation, Fowler says, “I need you to get over there and make sure Hank doesn’t do anything stupid.”  
  
“What the fuck?” tumbles out of Gavin’s mouth before he can stop it, and he doesn’t get a chance to recover before Fowler’s holding a hand up in a ‘stop right there’ gesture.  
  
“I will _pay_ you to go over there. As I told him about six times in that phone call, I can’t leave right now or I’d go myself.”  
  
“Anderson fucking hates me.”  
  
“He doesn’t hate you, he acts like that around everybody. Least he talks to you.”  
  
Gavin leans back with a huff and an eyeroll.  
  
“Go _,_ ” Fowler says. “Stop wasting time.”  
  
“Time and a half,” Gavin says, getting up.  
  
“ _Go._ ”  
  
***  
  
Gavin bangs on Hank’s front door for ten minutes before it swings open. Hank reeks of whiskey and abject disgust.  
  
“Oh, good, now I definitely won’t kill myself,” he says, dripping with sarcasm.  
  
“You know damn well I don’t want to be here either.”  
  
“Fowler send ya?”  
  
“Yep,” Gavin says, pushing past him and into the house. He may not want to be here, but he’s not a fan of standing out in the cold with the sun going down.  
  
“Fucker,” Hank says. Gavin can’t tell who it’s directed at.  
  
The door clicks shut behind him, so evidently Hank isn’t going to put up too much of a fight. Probably couldn’t, anyway, given the way he stumbles back to the couch and drops himself onto the sagging and dog-hair-covered cushion.  
  
Speaking of... “Where’s that monster dog of yours?”  
  
Hank waves his hand vaguely in the direction of the hallway. “He’s in—he’s...”  
  
Cole’s room, Gavin thinks, and sort of regrets asking.  
  
Hank takes another swig from a half-gone fifth of whiskey. Not the first, either, Gavin notes, casing the room, though there’s no telling how much Hank has had today (or in the last hour alone) and how much of this is the fallout from days and weeks prior. If it’s the latter, it’s not a huge surprise his wife had enough.  
  
(Gavin’s mind dredges up the image of Hank sitting stock-still and shell-shocked at the funeral, never shed a tear, never said a damn word, while Allison cried her eyes out and then some. He furrows his brow and pushes the too-recent memory back down.)  
  
The TV drones in the background, recaps and commentary on ESPN.  
  
“The fuck was his excuse?” Hank grumbles.  
  
“Working. You know he can’t just drop everything and walk out.”  
  
“Figures,” Hank says, tipping the bottle to his lips again.  
  
Against better judgement, Gavin strides over and swipes it out of his hand. He’s immediately rewarded by Hank lifting him by the collar and slamming him against the wall next to the entertainment center. The hit is hard enough that a photo frame topples over and the clock skips a tick.  
  
“The fuck was the last time you showered?” Gavin says through his teeth.  
  
“Gimme a good reason not to break your neck,” Hank replies.  
  
“Be a funny way to actually get Fowler out here,” Gavin replies.  
  
Hank drops him and slouches back on the couch.  
  
“Look, I get it,” Gavin says.  
  
“No you fuckin’ don’t.”  
  
“Okay, no, not really, not like you do.” Gavin sets the open bottle on the end table and sits down between it and Hank. “But I get how much this fucking sucks. You and me maybe don’t get along, but fuck if I’m gonna let you drink yourself to death over it. You’re a lot of things, Anderson. But you’re not a coward.”  
  
Hank doesn’t say anything immediately.  
  
“You wanna...” Gavin gestures vaguely. “Talk?”  
  
“No,” Hank says.  
  
“Suit yourself.”  
  
They sit in uneasy silence for a long stretch, maybe fifteen, twenty minutes judging solely by the commercial breaks. Hank doesn’t reach across him for the whiskey, which is...something, at least. But as much as Gavin isn’t really processing anything on the television, he bets Hank is even less.  
  
He hates himself before he even starts talking.  
  
“When I was 19,” Gavin starts, hesitantly, “I watched my parents bury my little sister. She was eight.”  
  
Out of the corner of his eye, Hank moves, ever so slightly. He’s listening, at least.  
  
“Accident report said it wasn’t my fault. Still felt like it was. He hit us right in her door.”  
  
Hank looks at him, silent.  
  
“Bashed up my face. Dropped out of college because I didn’t even get out of the hospital ‘til the end of August anyway. Tried to overdose in September and wound up right back in the ICU.”  
  
Hank looks back at the TV.  
  
“Shit,” Hank says, finally.  
  
“Maybe I don’t get what losing a kid is like,” Gavin says. “But you’re not the only one who’s had to move on. Don’t fucking do that to yourself.”  
  
Another stretch of silence passes between them, and then Hank gets to his feet. “I’m gonna...shower,” he says, with all uncertainty.  
  
Gavin pulls out his phone. “Fifteen minutes and I’m breaking the door down.”  
  
Hank makes a noise almost like a hiss and shakes his head, surprisingly confident on his feet towards the hallway.  
  
Gavin, in the meantime, texts Fowler.  
  
_he’s still breathing_ _  
_ _  
_ No reply. Gavin checks Facebook.  
  
A text alert comes in five minutes later.  
  
_Good. Keep him that way._ _  
_ _  
_ He checks the time again and then slides his phone back into his pocket. Gets up, shrugs off his jacket, hangs it by the door. Fowler didn’t clarify how long he was expected to babysit, but it’s a fair assumption he’s gonna be here a while, so he kicks off his boots too.  He eyes the bottle by the couch, and can’t locate a cap scanning the immediate vicinity. He picks it up and takes it to the kitchen, belting a shot before pouring the rest down the drain. Hank can fucking take it up with him on payday if he’s got a problem with it.  
  
In the kitchen, Gavin scans every visible surface. Open letters and bills on the table, edge to edge, like they haven’t sat down for a meal in at least a week. Cole’s art and photos still on the fridge. The dog dish is nearly empty. So’s the glass-front cabinet above the fridge that currently contains only a partial bottle of amaretto. He pops open the fridge and finds it still half-stocked with tupperware and aluminum pans. Can’t help but wonder how long before the sympathy of neighbours runs out.  
  
A month and a fucking half. That’s all it took.  
  
Gavin figures Cole’s death and Hank’s response was probably a last straw. His parents managed not to split after his sister died, but he’s not positive which scenario is the outlier.  
  
He checks his phone for the time and heads down the hallway.  
  
The shower’s still running, and Hank has a few more minutes before the promised time limit anyway.  
  
The master bedroom door is wide open. Gavin’s not enough of a snoop to check in there, though. Cole’s door is open, too, just enough to see the St Bernard occupying most of the bed. Looks asleep, though.  
  
There’s still toys on the floor, never got put away. Gavin tugs the door a little closer to shut.  
  
His phone says it’s been sixteen minutes now, and the shower’s still running. He bangs on the door.  
  
“Time’s up, Anderson.”  
  
He listens for the shower to cut off. It doesn’t.  
  
“Anderson,” Gavin repeats.  
  
He’s lining up to physically knock the door down when he hears the shower turn off.  
  
“Good,” he says, shoving his sleeves up and turning back for the living room.  
  
He’s slouched on the couch playing games when Hank finally reappears, a looming shadow in boxer shorts backlit by the TV.  
  
“Any more sober?” Gavin says, focussed on his phone.  
  
Hank doesn’t reply, or move.  
  
Gavin looks up, mildly concerned, just as Hank plants a hand on the back of the couch and leans down.  
  
“What the fuck, man?” Gavin says, trying to casually press himself as far into the couch as possible.  
  
“What, you’re hot,” Hank says.  
  
“Yeah, and you’re straight,” Gavin replies.  
  
Hank straightens up with an honest-to-God laugh, and Gavin isn’t sure that’s any better. “I can’t believe I’m being bi-erased in my own fuckin’ home,” Hank says.  
  
“...what.”  
  
Hank drops down next to him.  
  
“Look, you tell me no, I’ll back off. But I’ve never known you to say no.”  
  
Gavin scowls. “The fuck would you know about it?”  
  
“Know your record,” Hank says, like it’s fucking common knowledge.  
  
“Fuck off. I’m not gonna be your fucking rebound.”  
  
Hank shrugs.  
  
Gavin really hates being here. Especially since he had plans for after work and it’s looking like this might be his only chance for the evening.  
  
But it’s Hank fucking Anderson.  
  
He can’t believe he’s even considering it.  
  
“How drunk are you?” Gavin asks.  
  
Hank shrugs. “Didn’t start drinking until after I called Fowler.”  
  
“Are you sure?”  
  
“Yep.”  
  
Gavin wrenches his eyes shut. This is a lot more than he wants to get into with a coworker, but...if nothing else, it’ll keep Hank occupied for a little while, then hopefully he’ll fall asleep, and then Gavin can fuck off and not waste his whole evening sitting in front of fucking ESPN.  
  
(Gavin refuses to admit that he spends his weekends with types a lot like Hank anyway, so it’s six of one, all professionalism aside.)  
  
“Okay,” Gavin says, and he’s about to say ‘but’ except Hank’s full-force mouth-on-mouth against him before he can so much as breathe. He has no idea why he didn’t peg Hank for the aggressive type, but god _damn_ this is a bigger problem than he accounted for.  
  
He manages to pull himself together enough to drag his tongue out of Hank’s mouth and shove him off.  
  
“ _Okay,_ ” he says, a little more forcefully, “But we gotta talk first.”  
  
“I got supplies in the bathroom, you can clean up.”  
  
“First of all, what the fuck makes you think I’m a bottom?” he says, and it’s all Hank can do not to laugh. Gavin bares his teeth. “Second of all, I’m fucking serious, Anderson.”  
  
“Yeah,” Hank says. “Bathroom first. We can talk in the bedroom.”  
  
Gavin was perfectly content to suck dick from the sofa, but that’s fine too. He gets up and heads into the bathroom.  
  
The fact that there’s more than one enema kit beneath the bathroom sink says way more about Hank’s sex life than Gavin, frankly, ever wanted to know.  
  
It takes about fifteen minutes before he heads to the bedroom, having left his jeans folded on the edge of the sink. Hank’s obviously not one for mood or aesthetics. He’s sprawled on the bed, still in his boxers, with his phone out and the overhead light on. Gavin hangs in the doorway for a moment.  
  
“Lights on?” Gavin asks.  
  
“Up to you,” Hank replies.  
  
“Off,” he says, hitting the switch. He uses his phone to navigate to the bed until his eyes adjust to the streetlights coming in around the edges of the curtains. Hank puts his phone on the end table.  
  
“So. What’s so important?”  
  
Gavin sits down on the edge of the bed. Rip it off like a band-aid. “I’m trans,” he blurts.  
  
“Oh, that,” Hank says. “I knew that.”  
  
“You fucking _what._ ”  
  
“I swear it’s just me and Fowler. He had no idea what it meant when he hired you and asked me for help. The shit about your background check and name change and all, that is.”  
  
Gavin lets out a long breath, somewhere between angry and relieved.  
  
“Okay,” Gavin says, finally. “Good.”  
  
“Still on?”  
  
“Sure,” Gavin says, and climbs on top of Hank to pull his overshirt off.  
  
Hank plants his hands on Gavin’s hips and runs them down his thighs. Gavin’s practically vibrating with anticipation and nerves. It’s not like he gets it on with someone else touching him on a regular basis. No trust for that. Sure, a lot of his hookups probably wouldn’t care, but as far as he’s concerned, it’s just easier to not bother, most of the time.  If it’s that much of a non-issue to Hank, though, maybe this wasn’t such a fucking awful idea.  
  
Hank’s hands run back up to Gavin’s midsection, the band of warm skin between the waistband of his boxer-briefs and the hem of his binder. Hank hooks a thumb under it and gives it an experimental tug, surprised, like he didn’t expect it to be tight-fitting.  
  
“Hang on,” Gavin says, and goes through the arm-tuck-and-wiggle ritual of pulling his binder off.  
  
Hank looks him up and down, something unfamiliar crossing his face.  
  
“You wear that all the time?” he asks.  
  
“If I’m not at home, yeah,” Gavin says. Why the fuck does his face feel warm?  
  
“What, fourteen hours? More? I’ve seen you practically do parkour on the job.”  
  
“Look, are we gonna fuck or are you gonna marvel at my ability to breathe?”  
  
Hank smirks and keeps his hands at Gavin’s waist for a second, then moves them up along his ribs. Gavin’s breath catches. It’s a weird feeling, someone else’s touch while his skin is still a little pinched and rubbed from the nylon, especially where Hank’s fingers have found the indents from the stitching.  
  
Gavin doesn’t want to think about it too much. He bends down and presses himself to Hank’s chest, kissing him again, hard and deep.  
  
He silently curses his zero-to-sixty libido. Whatever reservations he had about this are gone with the way Hank’s got one heavy arm draped around the back of his waist, practically pinning him, the other hand up on the back of Gavin’s neck, fingers in the short crop of his hair. He can feel Hank’s cock through his shorts, and Jesus Christ, he wants it. His whole body is on fire.  
  
Hank runs the hand at Gavin’s waist under his waistband and grabs his ass, and Gavin can’t help the small noise he makes against Hank’s mouth. Hank’s hand at the nape of his neck tightens, pulling Gavin back a little.  
  
“Where can I touch you?” Hank asks.  
  
“Everywhere,” Gavin pants.  
  
“Everywhere?” Hank repeats.  
  
Gavin snarls and grinds down against Hank’s cock, earning a low grunt. “ _Everywhere,_ ” Gavin says through his teeth. “Just— just fuck me.” He leans down for a long slow wet kiss that ends with his teeth scraping and tugging on Hank’s lower lip. “Stop asking questions,” he says against Hank’s mouth, “and _fuck me._ ”  
  
“Okay, okay,” Hank says, sounding huskier by the minute, a feat Gavin wouldn’t have thought possible. He shoves his hand all the way down the back of Gavin’s shorts and runs his finger along his ass.  
  
Gavin, despite himself, squeaks.  
  
“Off with ‘em,” Hank says. Gavin scrambles to comply, and drops his shorts in the floor. (Still wearing socks. At least he can claim in good conscience that he wasn’t naked.)  
  
He crashes back down on top of Hank, legs alternating, leaving a wet streak on Hank’s thigh where he can’t stop himself from rolling his hips. Their lips meet again bruising rough, and Gavin palms at Hank’s cock while he shuffles himself into position.  
  
“Need lube?” Hank asks, his hand straying towards the end table.  
  
“Fuck no,” Gavin replies, grabbing Hank’s wrist to plant his hand back on his hip. He spreads himself open, dripping on Hank, and reaches down to hold Hank’s cock steady as he lowers himself.  
  
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Hank mumbles. His fingers tighten on Gavin’s hips.  
  
Gavin grinds down against him in small but determined motions; it’s hard to ride Hank because Hank fucking stretches him out but doesn’t hit as deep as he wants. He presses his hands to Hank’s chest and rocks his hips, trying to find the sweet spot.  
  
“ _Fuck,_ ” Gavin spits through his teeth. “God. Just—fuck—”  
  
Hank grunts, fingers moving from Gavin’s hips to thighs and back again. Gavin’s probably going to have at least a few bruises from where Hank keeps squeezing him.  
  
“Nope,” Hank says abruptly, and puts his hand on Gavin’s stomach. “Off. Roll over.”  
  
He doesn’t have to tell Gavin twice.  
  
He pulls himself off of Hank’s cock and twists over, Hank pulling himself up onto his knees behind him. He grabs Gavin by the hips and drags him up and back to meet him. Gavin reaches under himself and spreads his fingers on either side of his hole, offering Hank a clear target.  
  
Hank slams into him harder than anticipated, but it’s good. It’s so, so good.  
  
The rhythm starts rough but steady and only gets harder. Gavin’s grunts and groans spiral into long moans and whines, his hands curled tight in the covers, his forearm collecting drool under the side of his face. Hank is equal parts thrusting into him and pulling Gavin back against him. It’s loud, it’s messy, it hurts just enough, and Hank’s stout curve hits Gavin in all the right spots from this angle.  
  
Gavin feels one of Hank’s broad hands leave him, and he presses his mouth against the back of his hand and whines at the new cold spot on his hip and Hank’s sudden stutter in his rhythm.  
  
“Fuck-fuck-fuck—don’t you fucking stop— ” he bites out.  
  
He hears the click of the lube cap coming open and only barely registers what that means before a cold drizzle hits his ass and trickles down. Hank catches the trail with his thumb, his thrusts slowed to a gentle rock, and presses against Gavin’s other hole.  
  
“You want it?” Hank asks, rubbing small circles that make Gavin want to fucking cry.  
  
“ _Godfuckyesfuckme—_ ”  
  
Hank pulls his thumb away and replaces it with the tip of his forefinger. The press is gentle at first, then insistent, and Gavin’s voice pitches out of control as it slides into him. He bites down on the base of his thumb to shut himself up.  
  
“Fucking _Christ_ , Gavin,” Hank says, and picks up the rhythm with his hips again.  
  
Gavin reaches back to rub his cock, his hand catching the sheer amount of lubrication, mostly his own, stringing onto the bed. He doesn’t even have to stroke himself; Hank’s movements are doing it for him if he just keeps his hand there, God, if Hank would just—

As if on cue, Hank withdraws from Gavin’s ass and then presses as second finger in, the slide easy now that Gavin’s warmed up.  
  
Gavin bites down harder on his hand. It does nothing to mute him.  
  
That’s it. That might just be it. He can feel it coming.  
  
Hank’s motions are getting erratic, and it flashes in Gavin’s mind to tell him to stop, pull out, hold on, _anything,_ but it’s his own damn fault for jumping the gun before Hank could get a condom on. Can’t even speak to express it now. He drags his hand away from his cock and reaches back to slap Hank on the leg, weak and shaky at first, then insistent and repeated.  
  
“Fuck,” Hank says, withdrawing his fingers and slowing his motions. “What?”  
  
Gavin makes a vaguely choked noise and smacks Hank’s thigh again, wriggling to pull away even though his legs don’t quite feel attached.  
  
Hank hesitates a moment, then hisses “ _shit,_ ” and pulls out. Gavin collapses onto the bed.  
  
Moving under no control of his own, Gavin curls up, knees to chest, hand still pressed to his mouth, and breathes shakily for a few seconds before swearing under his breath. He shoves his other hand back between his thighs and starts stroking himself. It’s not gonna be as good as he wants, but it’s what he gets for moving too fast.  
  
Hank puts a hand on his thigh and leans down over him.  
  
“You want me to keep fingering you?” he asks.  
  
Gavin nods, realises Hank probably can’t see him well in the dark, and manages to force a “yes” out.  
  
“On your back,” Hank says, and Gavin flops over, legs splayed.  
  
Hank pulls him by the hips until he’s propped up a little on Hank’s knees, and then carefully slides just one finger back into his ass, then the other, stroking in slow pulls against the thin wall between holes.  
  
Gavin starts to rub himself again, but Hank grabs his wrist and pulls his hand away, then plants his own against Gavin and starts stroking him with the pad of his thumb.  
  
The lost momentum doesn’t take much time to build back up, but Hank’s thumb on his cock is imprecise and too slow, and it drags it out. Every time Gavin feels like it won’t take much more, some minor shift pulls him away from the edge. It goes on, and on, and Gavin’s so used to being fucking _used_ that this new pace is infuriating. _  
__  
_ He shoves his fingers in his mouth, tasting himself, biting down when he approaches the edge, sucking to keep himself from sobbing when it gets further away.  
  
Hank pulls almost out of him and Gavin is going to _murder_ him until he presses a third finger in, _so. Fucking. Slowly._ _  
__  
_ Gavin’s hips buck, his legs strain, his fingers tangle in the covers so tight he might rip them. Hank’s pace on his cock picks up. “There you go,” Hank says. “Come on.”  
  
There are actual tears on Gavin’s face.  
  
“You gonna come?” Hank says.  
  
That does it.  
  
Gavin unleashes a noise somewhere between a sob and a scream, clenching around Hank’s fingers, arching up into his touch, shivering, trembling, and then Hank’s pulling out of him and sliding his hand away from Gavin’s cock and up his abdomen and Gavin can’t even feel most of his body for a second.  
  
Slowly, unsteadily, Gavin pulls himself up, twisted sideways and then onto his hands and knees and then drops onto his stomach and wraps his hand around Hank’s cock to guide it to his mouth. Hank’s still just as hard as he was inside of Gavin; this won’t take long.  
  
Even Gavin’s best attempt at matching Hank’s long, lazy movements can’t stave it off for very long, and Hank gets a hand in Gavin’s hair and comes down his throat with a loud grunt.  
  
Gavin swallows and pulls himself up onto Hank’s chest like a cat as Hank unfolds his knees.  
  
The next thing Gavin knows, he’s got a warm heavy arm wrapped around him, and then he’s gone.  
  
***  
  
Gavin wakes up several hours later to the sound of the television playing in the living room, somehow tucked under the covers, in Hank’s bed, alone.  
  
He sits up and immediately regrets it. The pain isn’t bad, it’ll probably fade before he has to go into work, but right now it’s a little excessive.  
  
He hangs upside down off the edge of the bed and paws around in the floor for his shorts and his phone. He comes up with both, checks the time. It’s just shy of 2 AM.  
  
“ _Fuck._ ”  
  
He shines his phone on the bedside lamp so he can turn it on, and then rubs his eyes and looks around the room. Hank’s clearly been up for a minute; the bed, aside from where Gavin was laying, is cold to the touch. The top blanket, Gavin couldn’t be sure from looks, almost certainly isn’t the same one they were fucking on, if only because of the lack of prominent wet spots. Hank’s gotta be a fucking magician to have gotten Gavin not only in the bed, but changed the blanket while he was at it.  
  
He gets up and picks his binder up off the floor. Starts to put it back on, and hesitates.   
  
Hank’s got an old DPD hoodie hanging on the back of the bureau door.  
  
Gavin pulls it on. It swallows him, easily four sizes too big.  
  
He takes his binder and shirt to the bathroom and puts them with his jeans, for later, and cleans up the sticky mess between his legs while he’s there. He then ventures to the living room. Hank’s up watching a UFC match. Might be a replay. Sumo is on the floor by the couch.  
  
Gavin hesitates, but the big dog doesn’t seem remotely interested in him, so he sits down next to Hank, leaving a gap in between them.  
  
“Thought you were gonna be out ‘til morning,” Hank says, then glances at him. “Is that mine?”  
  
“I was cold,” Gavin says. “This isn’t a thing.”  
  
“Yeah. It’s not.”  
  
“We’re not gonna talk about it.”  
  
“Wasn’t planning on it.”  
  
Gavin leaves a space of silence before adding, “Pretty good, though.”  
  
“Yep. Not bad.”  
  
They sit in the low volume and TV glow for a long time before either of them says anything else. Gavin plays on his phone until he runs out of lives on every game he has. Tries to focus on the TV but can’t. Sumo starts snoring.  
  
Hank breaks the silence with, “So...”  
  
Gavin braces.  
  
“Why wear that tank top all the time? Why not just get surgery?”  
  
Gavin snorts, expression flat. “Yeah,” he says. “Why not _just_ get surgery. Why not spend vacation time I don’t have on surgery I can’t afford and then take care of myself while I recover. Why not.”  
  
“Insurance won’t cover it?” Hank asks.  
  
“Nope. Even if it did, I don’t want the billing code on it, since insurance is through work.”  
  
“How much is it?”  
  
Gavin shrugs. “Few thousand dollars. Not to mention consultations, potential travel, missing work, probably paying somebody to help out for at least a few days while I’m getting over the worst of recovery.”  
  
“Fuck,” Hank says.  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
It goes quiet for a minute.  
  
“You live alone?” Hank asks.  
  
“Yeah,” Gavin replies.  
  
“No family in the area?”  
  
“Good one. Family is spread around New England. Wouldn’t want to help me even if they were local, and I wouldn’t fucking want them to.” He opens Facebook, then immediately closes it. “Nah. Just me and my pets, that’s all.”  
  
“I didn’t know you had pets,” Hank says, as if it’s a revelation that nobody knows anything about Gavin.  
  
“Cat and a snake.”  
  
“Whaddya call ‘em?” Hank asks.  
  
Gavin’s just shy of exhausted and fed up with this conversation. Like, he feels sorry for the guy, but he’s also never heard Hank Anderson talk this much in his life, or take this much interest in somebody.  “Do you actually care or are you just making small-talk?”  
  
Hank seems only mildly offended, but shrugs it off and turns his attention back to the TV.  
  
There’s not much else to talk about. Gavin can’t think of anything to even ask that wouldn’t get Hank spiralling, and he’s kind of okay with the quiet anyway. The self-hate creep starts slow and soft, so he’s got time before it overwhelms him, regardless.  
  
So instead he sits there, in Hank’s hoodie, still feeling the stretch of Hank’s fingers in his ass and cock in his hole. He shifts uncomfortably. There’s no way to not make this situation awkward.  
  
Gavin’s never been much of a sports guy. He excuses himself to go to the kitchen to get a drink.  
  
Hank must hear him prowling through cabinets, because he calls in, “Second one to the right.”  
  
Cups and mugs, not a match set to be had.  
  
“There’s soda in the fridge if you want it.”  
  
Gavin’s distracted looking at the variety of mugs. Lots of nerdy shit. He wouldn’t have guessed Hank for the type. Maybe Allison’s, though.  
  
“I could put on coffee,” Gavin says, reading a mug covered in Star Trek quotes in decorative lettering.  
  
“Gavin, it’s three in the damn morning.”  
  
Gavin shrugs and puts the mug back. “Never stops me.”  
  
“Has anyone ever questioned your decision-making skills?”  
  
Gavin gets down a plastic cup, looks like it’s from a business function with the lettering wearing off, and fills it with water from the fridge door.  
  
He sits back down next to Hank.  
  
“I dunno. I don’t sleep much.” He folds his legs on the couch and takes a sip.  
  
“Yeah,” concedes Hank. “Me neither.”  
  
They don’t talk any further.  
  
Gavin finishes his water.  
  
Sumo gets up, walks three huge paces to the other side of the couch, and starts snoring again.  
  
Hank finally clicks the TV off, but neither of them move.  
  
“I should...probably head home,” Gavin says.  
  
“Got work in three hours,” Hank says.  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“I could probably dig up a spare toothbrush if you wanna crash here.”  
  
Gavin stares at Hank for a minute, trying to decide if he’s actually serious.  
  
“Or,” Hank says, getting up, “You can go home. Doesn’t matter to me.”  
  
Gavin looks around the living room. Shuffles the throw pillow next to him.  
  
“Y’know,” he says. “Fowler would probably want me to stay.”  
  
It’s true, on some level. Like, he’s pretty confident at this point that Hank’s not a threat to himself, but he’d also kind of hate himself if he shows up for work in a few hours and Hank...doesn’t. At least this way, he can make sure Hank drags in, probably at least win a few points in Fowler’s book, whatever.  
  
“I’ll grab a blanket for ya.”  
  
Gavin gets up to put the cup in the sink.  
  
Hank’s place is closer to the precinct, anyway, he reasons.  
  
Hank comes back from the hallway with a couple of blankets in tow, one knitted, one quilt. Gavin takes both. He says a short, soft “thanks”, and Hank clicks out the light and retreats back down the hall.  
  
Gavin fucks around on Facebook until his phone dwindles down to 20% battery, which is probably enough to last a few hours and still have his alarm go off.  
  
The streetlights don’t leave much to the imagination in Hank’s living room. The clock ticks steadily on the wall, and Gavin’s not sure how he feels about sleeping in a strange place. This is not a practice he makes a habit of. Especially not when it’s _Hank..._ hell, the last time he slept somewhere that wasn’t his apartment, he fell asleep on Tina’s floor because he was too drunk to move after a Tarantino marathon. And that was two years ago.  
  
He doesn’t even have anything for his insomnia here, and he’s starting to regret pouring out the last of the whiskey.  
  
Eventually, sleep claims him, hard but restless.  
  
***  
  
Gavin’s alarm has been going off for ten minutes by the time he actually drags himself awake. He’s tangled in blankets and his knees hurt from being curled up. At some point in the last two hours, Sumo decided to occupy more than half of the couch, leaving Gavin scrunched in a ball at one end.  
  
He sits up and scrubs a hand over his face, trying to get his bearings.  
  
Right. Yeah.  
  
Coffee.  
  
He staggers sleep-drunk into the kitchen with the quilt wrapped around his shoulders and dragging the floor behind him, and starts rummaging around for where the hell Hank keeps the damn coffee pods. Why can’t he just use a fucking drip machine like a normal person? This is bullshit.  
  
Gavin pulls a mug down without looking at it and shoves it under the coffee machine, fills it with water, and pokes it until it does something.  
  
He turns around and nearly falls over Sumo, who has evidently decided following him is the best course of action. Sumo stares expectantly at his bowl.  
  
“Not my job,” Gavin grumbles.  
  
The coffee machine fills the mug, and Gavin takes it straight and black and goes back to the couch to channel surf until his brain manages to realise it’s morning.  
  
There’s no other movement in the house. Gavin wonders when Hank normally decides to roll out.  
  
He finally settles on watching the news, or at least staring at it without comprehending a single word of it, until he finishes his coffee. (It’s _good_ coffee, he can’t deny that.)  
  
He leaves the mug in the sink and the blanket on the back of the couch, and goes to blast himself with cold water.  
  
He’s halfway through rinsing the soap off when he hears Hank’s alarm go off in the next room, so he makes quick work of wrapping up and getting dressed. There is, in fact, a spare toothbrush on the counter, a double set still in the packaging. Gavin pops it open and brushes his teeth, cringing slightly at the overpowering spearmint of Hank’s choice in toothpaste. (Can’t blame him. If you’re gonna show up for work hungover on a regular basis for the last month solid, might as well do your level best to hide it.) 

Hank mumbles “morning” at him as they pass in the bathroom doorway, and Gavin goes back to the kitchen to browse around for some cereal or something. He’ll get actual breakfast, and another coffee, on his way to work, but his stomach is growling like mad right now, and he realises he never actually ate anything the night before. Straight from work to here and nothing in him except—

Yeah. Not thinking about that, not talking about that.  
  
There’s Cheerios and Special K Strawberry, and Gavin mixes them  in a large bowl and drowns them in the fucking lowfat milk in the fridge. No taste. It’s whatever. He’s not up for so much as cracking an egg right now, so he can’t complain.  
  
He eats with a serving spoon and listens to the drone of the TV in front of him mingling with the shower running down the hall. Wonders if it’s customary for Hank to shower at night and in the morning both, or if he, like Gavin, just doesn’t want them to smell like each other at the office. Gavin figures even if they leave at the same time, accounting for traffic and pit stops, they probably will show up a safe distance apart. Least, that’s the plan.  
  
Gavin’s not sure why he’s so fucked up about the potential of anybody finding out they fucked. Not like it’s ever bothered him before, who he fucks and who knows about it.  
  
(Except it does, constantly, and he’s still pissed Hank knows anything about where Gavin usually hangs around when he’s not at work.)  
  
Yep, there it is, that self-hate spiral he was holding off from the night before.  
  
Two hours, though, he thinks, is really not enough to constitute “the night before”.  
  
Hank appears in the living room, showered but only half-dressed, and Gavin idly watches him roam around the kitchen.  
  
He looks lost, kind of, like his routine is thoroughly disrupted and he’s not sure what he’s supposed to be doing. Starts coffee. Keeps stopping at the sink, staring out the window. Finally gives in to Sumo’s whimpering and fills his bowl.  
  
The coffee machine seems to take him by surprise when it finishes.  
  
Hank picks up the mug and pours what must be half a cup of sugar into it, then sits down at the table. He stares into the cup for a long time.  
  
Gavin, with a cursory eye-roll, takes pity on him and gets up to go sit at the table, under the premise of needing to put his cereal bowl in the sink anyway.  
  
The papers, bills, everything strewn across the table looks like it hasn’t budged in maybe a month, upon closer inspection. There’s coffee drips on things. Drifts of dog hair. In the light of day, everything is a mess, the whole kitchen. The whole house.  
  
“I’m pretty good at rage-cleaning,” Gavin says. “Y’know. If you want the help.”  
  
Hank glances at him, then stares into his coffee again. He finally takes a drink, but doesn’t reply.  
  
Sumo, his bowl all but empty again, positions himself under the table.  
  
“Good talk,” Gavin says.  
  
“This isn’t a thing,” Hank reminds him.  
  
“Yeah,” Gavin replies, and gets up. He heads to the door and throws his jacket on. “See you at work.”  
  
Hank grunts a reply, and Gavin leaves, with only the barest doubt that Hank will follow.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this...got...out of hand. i wanted to write hank/gavin because i hadn't seen very many people play with that ship, aaaand it developed a plot. if all goes according to plan, this is going to stretch all the way up until the end of the game, roughly, so we'll see what happens. JUST SO EVERYONE IS WARNED, future chapters are going to involve fighting, (further) unhealthy coping tactics, explicitly exploring grief, surgery/medical/explicit trans shit, and even more bad decisions. i don't want anybody getting blindsided before they get into it, but tags will be added once they become relevant anyway.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Six months later, it’s still not a thing, and they’re still not talking about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING
> 
> BIG BOLD WARNING
> 
> THIS CHAPTER DEALS HEAVILY WITH SEVERE DYSPHORIA. 
> 
> Gavin experiences breakthrough bleeding (that is, menstruation) and this is the fallout and recovery. This chapter involves description of panic attacks and dysphoria from a very close perspective. Tread with caution.
> 
> IF YOU CANNOT HANDLE ALL OF THAT BUT STILL WANT TO SEE THE PLOT-NECESSARY STUFF, skip to "The third day..." and you should be safe.

Six months later, it’s still not a thing, and they’re still not talking about it. 

Oh sure, there’s been conversation, plenty of it. They still hit raids together now and then, when their schedules line up and Gavin’s connection isn’t absolute shit. But there hasn’t been any mention of the hookup, and no mention of future hookups, and as far as Gavin can tell, Hank’s handling the shitshow that has become of his life about as well as anybody could expect.    
  
Hank shows up to work drunk or hungover more often than not, but at least he shows up.    
  
Even for late May, it is ridiculously hot, and the office AC just isn’t keeping up. Gavin’s got a desk fan turned on him full-blast, and he’s still burning up. Probably wouldn’t be so bad if he’d lose a few layers, maybe take off his damn jacket, but...yeah. Not happening.    
  
All the ice has melted in Gavin’s coffee, the clear cup a gradient from the water layer on top to the pooled syrup in the bottom. Food’s probably something he should get after, since all he’s had today was a McGriddle six hours ago, but...hell. Feels like he’s sick. Stomach’s been cramping all day. Might just be the heat.    
  
The only reason he even has an iced coffee in hand is because Tina commented that he was looking a little pale and took pity on him.    
  
Can’t focus on case files. Keeps tapping idle games on his phone.    
  
He downs a couple of Tylenol. Probably too much caffeine and sugar on an empty stomach, but his head is fucking throbbing.    
  
“Gavin?” Tina asks. Gavin nearly jumps out of his seat, hadn’t even heard her come up. “You okay?”   
  
“What? Yeah. Headache. Fuckin’ heatwave.”   
  
“You’re shaking.”   
  
“I’m what?”   
  
Gavin blinks and focuses on the phone in his hands. Sure e-fucking-nough, he’s trembling.   
  
“Yeah,” he says, putting the phone down and pressing his fingers to his eyes. “Just...probably caffeine. Need to take a lunch break.”   
  
“You sure you’re not coming down with something? You look like you oughta take a half day.”   
  
Gavin shoots her a look, but she’s obviously not kidding. Like, she looks legitimately worried. Gavin’s aware he doesn’t sleep enough and looks like shit 90% of the time, but surely he doesn’t look that bad, right?   
  
No. Something  _ is  _ wrong. He’s been...kind of anxious all day, not like he’d admit it. Something screaming at him in his hind-brain.    
  
“I’m gonna take lunch,” he says. Swings his feet off the desk and stands up.   
  
...fuck.    
  
_ Fuck.  _   
  
There’s a sudden damp  _ rush _ between his legs. His head fucking spins. When was the last time he—  _ fuck _ , did he skip his shot? More than one? Fifteen fucking years and he can’t even keep a regular—    
  
Somewhere in his periphery, he hears Tina say his name, but he’s already bolting for the bathroom.

 

***

 

Much as Gavin knows Tina’s got no problem waltzing into the men’s room, she’s not the one who comes to check on him.    
  
Hank is.    
  
Just what he needs.    
  
“Reed?”

He couldn’t even have made it into a stall, could he. No, he’s sitting in the fucking floor by the sinks, shaking, trying to find the line between knowing there’s blood staining his clothes and not wanting to acknowledge it long enough to do something about it. His chest hurts. 

Hank looks around and misses Gavin altogether at first, curled up on himself, fingers tangled in his hair. Gavin must make some noise, even if he doesn’t mean to, because Hank, looking perplexed at the empty stalls, turns around and looks down. 

“Gavin? You okay?” He asks, crouching down. He’s in Dad Mode. Gavin wants to punch him. 

He doesn’t answer right away, and Hank sees fucking fit to reach over and put a hand on his arm. Gavin swipes his arm away with a snake-strike motion, spits “Don’t fucking touch me,” or tries to. His throat is tight, his voice hoarse and soft. The cold air hitting his face now that it’s not buried forces him to notice the wet streaks down his cheeks. 

“Okay,” Hank says, rocking back on one heel and raising his hands. “Okay.”

Gavin swipes the back of his arm across his face, and the leather just smears the wetness. 

“Fuck off,” he says. 

“What do you need?” Hank asks. 

“ _ Fuck. Off. _ ”

“Look.” Hank’s commanding, but his arms are down, his hands at ease. It’s not a threat. “Tina said you were feeling like shit. She told me to come check up on you, find out what’s up.”

“She couldn’t ask me herself?”   
  
Hank goes to roll his eyes and seems to get hung on the ceiling tiles. “Yeah,” he says, then looks back down at Gavin. “Okay. She knows what’s up. She’s asking Fowler for a half-day for you.”   
  
“ _ Fuck, _ ” Gavin hisses. “Is there anybody in this fucking department who doesn’t know I’m in here fucking bleeding?”   
  
Hank ignores him. “I’m gonna take lunch and drive you home, ‘cause honestly, I don’t think you ought to be driving right now. You’re gonna give me your keys so Tina can bring you your bike later. You got something to, uh—” He gestures vaguely. “Stop that bleeding?”

Gavin’s face wrenches and his heart catches. He jams the heel of his hand against the bridge of his nose. He feels too hot. Dizzy. Sick. There’s a dull ache throbbing in his thighs, in the pit of his belly, contrasting with the sharp crush of every breath, like nails in his ribs. He can feel his pulse in his temples. The flutter in his own throat. There’s a noise echoing off the tiles, harsh and scraping, and he realises it’s him, it’s his breath, he’s hyperventilating, his breath rasping through his vocal chords in a pathetic wheeze. 

“Shit,” Hank says, and there’s a rustle of motion. 

Gavin can’t stop him this time when Hank lays hands on him, rearranging him, shoving Gavin’s jacket down off his shoulders and pulling it away from him. Hank grabs the hem of Gavin’s shirt and Gavin’s heart thunders in his ears. Like an afterthought, Hank moves away, and Gavin hears the high-pitched grate of the metal wastebin sliding on tile and then clanking against the door, a makeshift barricade. Then Hank’s back in front of him yanking Gavin’s shirt off like he’s a fucking rag doll. Gavin’s too lightheaded to fight when Hank tells him “Arms up.”

Hank grabs the bottom of Gavin’s binder and unceremoniously shucks him out of it in a single hard shake, turning it inside out as it peels off of sweaty skin, lifting Gavin a little and dropping him back on his tailbone on the tile. 

Gavin scrambles and pulls his arms tight across his chest and curls his knees up, and Hank grabs the abandoned shirt and pulls the neck over Gavin’s head, leaving the rest to him. 

Gavin hates Hank a little. A lot, really. But he can breathe, at least. Still panicking, but the spinning is settling and he doesn’t feel like he’s going to throw up. His breathing slows, and then picks up again, hard and wracking with his hands pressed over his mouth and tears flowing fast. 

Fuck. Fuck  _ fuck fuck fuck.   _

“Stay put,” Hank says, like he thinks Gavin’s actually going anywhere.

Hank gets up. The wastebin moves again, the door opens and then slams closed. Gavin fumbles over his head for the paper towel dispenser to at least regain some of his dignity. By the time Hank gets back, his face is at least dry and his nose unclogged, but his skin is red from scrubbing the rough towels over it. 

There’s a kind of numbness that comes after crying, a stillness in the world like nothing fucking matters, and Gavin has officially reached that point. Hands folded in his lap around a crumpled and damp paper towel, legs outstretched, head against the wall. He feels hollowed out. 

When Hank returns and hands him the pale green rectangle of a wrapped pad, Gavin accepts it with resignation and shoves himself up to go into a stall. He hears the bathroom door open and close again while he’s being dimly grateful that his boxer briefs are at least black. 

Gavin exits the bathroom with his jacket back on and zipped up, his shoulders hunched forward and his binder rolled up in his jacket pocket. 

Hank’s standing just outside the bathroom door.

They don’t talk as Hank escorts Gavin out behind the office and through the back door, then around to the side parking lot where Hank’s car is. They don’t talk as they get in the car. Gavin fumbles with his keyring to separate his apartment key from the rest of his keychain. They don’t talk when Gavin gets out of the car, depositing his keychain in Hank’s outstretched hand, the brief brush of fingers the only acknowledgement of each other. 

Gavin slogs up the three flights to his apartment. He thinks to glance down when he hits the landing, and sure enough, Hank’s still sitting there, watching for Gavin’s key to hit the lock. Soon as it does, the car rolls away.

Gavin goes in, tosses the key by the TV, chains and bolts the door, and goes to take a shower hot enough to burn.

 

***

 

Tina bangs on his door just past seven that night, and Gavin drags himself off the couch and unbolts, but doesn’t unchain, the door. He cracks it open the width of the chain and holds his hand out.    
  
“Oh no,” Tina says. “Open the damn door. I’m coming in.”   
  
“Give me my fucking keys.”   
  
“Sure, soon as you let me in.”   
  
Gavin glares at her, but the smell of takeout has hit his senses, and he decides maybe he doesn’t hate  _ everyone  _ in the world. He closes the door just long enough to unchain it and then leaves it standing open for her.    
  
Tina comes in, locks the door behind her, and hangs Gavin’s keys on the hook by his jacket.    
  
“You know that’s not where those go,” Gavin says, falling back onto the couch.    
  
“You’ve been sitting in the dark for six hours? Are you kidding me?”   
  
“Lying,” Gavin replies. “TV’s on.”

“Uh-huh,” Tina says. “Where do you want me to set this?”

“There’s a, uh,” Gavin pauses to cough and clear his throat, “A card table in the pantry.”

Tina follows directions, retrieves the card table, and unfolds it in front of the couch. She sets the paper bag on it and starts unloading food into Gavin’s lap, naming items as she hands them off. “House lo mein, Thai beef curry, crab rangoons, shrimp spring rolls.”

“I could marry you,” Gavin says.    
  
“We’re both way too gay for that, hon,” Tina answers. 

“I’m bi,” Gavin protests weakly, already digging into his food, knowing damn well he’s slept with one girl in his life and she was ten years ago. 

“Right. Way too gay.”   
  
Tina gets up and takes Gavin’s remote from the arm of the opposite end of the couch. She puts on Netflix and starts  _ Kill Bill vol. 1.  _

“So what’s gonna happen is, we’re gonna eat, and then I’m gonna go buy booze and/or ice cream.”   
  
“And,” Gavin says through a mouthful of noodles.

By the time that point comes, they’re already into  _ Vol. 2  _ and Gavin is all but horizontal, a pillow propped between his head and Tina’s thigh. The food is demolished. 

“You take your shot yet?” Tina asks, offhand, casual, the first talk that hasn’t been food- or movie-related for the last two hours. 

Gavin shrugs. “I’ll do it in the morning.”

“Go do it now. I’m gonna run to the store.” She shuffles away from Gavin and up, leaving him to fall fully prone on the sofa. “What kind of ice cream do you want?”

“Surprise me,” Gavin says.    
  
“Dangerous words,” Tina replies, and pulls her jacket back on. “Back soon.”   
  
She heads out the door with his keys. Gavin, to his credit, very seriously considers getting up for about ten minutes, but never manages to overcome inertia. He glazes over, the screen partially blocked by empty stacked takeout containers. Not like he’s missing anything. He’s seen every Tarantino film a thousand times.    
  
The key hitting the lock jolts him out of a doze he didn’t know he was taking some time later. 

“Did you do the thing, asshole?” Tina says, nudging the door shut with her heel.   
  
“What?” Gavin grumbles, genuinely confused.   
  
Tina rolls her eyes. “Catch,” she says, tossing a pint of Phish Food at Gavin. 

It’s by sheer reflex he snags it before it hits his face. He pushes himself upright and rubs the back of his arm across his face. “Gimme a spoon,” he says.   
  
Tina heads into the kitchen, and Gavin hears the  _ clunk  _ of a bag-wrapped liquor bottle being sat on the counter. He’s not getting to that tonight. It’s only 10 PM and he’s fucking exhausted. Tina returns with two spoons and her own pint of Cherry Garcia. “By the way,” she says, falling onto the couch next to him, “I’m crashing here tonight so you can give me a ride tomorrow.”   
  
“I’m calling in tomorrow,” Gavin says, tearing the plastic seal off the pint. 

“Then I’m stealing your bike in the morning.”   
  
“Don’t wreck it.”   
  
Gavin’s cat makes herself known at the sound of the ice cream being opened, and Gavin fluidly scoops her off the couch one-handed, the spoon between his fingers like a cigarette.    
  
“She’s so fat,” Tina says.    
  
“She’s lazy as shit,” Gavin replies.

The cat leaps back onto the couch and is removed again.    
  
“Look,” Gavin says, “It’s chocolate. You can’t have chocolate.”

“Wonder what everyone at the precinct would say if they knew you talk to your cat.”   
  
“You think it’d surprise them?”   
  
Tina shrugs.    
  
They finish out the movie and half the ice cream. The rest, Gavin puts in the freezer, then grabs two throw pillows and heads into the bedroom. “You crashing in there or in here?” Gavin shouts at Tina, knowing the answer. She follows him into the bedroom.    
  
“You got a shirt I can borrow?”   
  
“You know where to find one,” Gavin says. He rearranges the full bed so there’s room for both. “Left or right?”   
  
“Doesn’t matter.” Tina rifles through Gavin’s chest of drawers. 

Gavin tosses the pillows towards the headboard, then goes to brush his teeth. By the time he gets back, Tina’s already in her underwear and one of his shirts, and is under the covers, her phone on his charger. Gavin shucks his shirt and climbs in, back to her.   
  
“You good?” he asks.    
  
“Yep,” she says, throwing an arm around his waist. In three minutes flat, she’s snoring.    
  
Gavin’s on his phone for the next hour before sleep properly takes him, and his phone falls from his hand and tumbles to the floor.

 

***

 

Gavin wakes up at noon. He’s still tired.

Goddamnit.    


He pulls himself upright and looks around the room. His phone is plugged in on the nightstand. He’s fought most of the blankets into the floor, but that’s normal.    
  
He drags himself out of bed and yanks on a t-shirt, then shuffles into the kitchen. 

His keys, still hanging on the rack where they don’t belong, catch his eye. Tina must have taken a cab. 

There’s still half a container of lo mein in the fridge, and Gavin eats it cold while pacing around. Long as he stays moving, the pain won’t set back in. He tosses the empty container and washes the leftovers down with what’s left of a half-gallon of cold brew in the fridge. 

Gavin leaves the light off in the bathroom, operating by the dim glow of the two chargers by the sink, one razor and one toothbrush. There’s not as much blood as he felt like there would be. Spotting, at best. Least he’s prepared for this sort of bullshit, supplies tucked far in the cabinet under the sink where he won’t have to look at them. It’s not like it’s the first time it’s happened. 

He rips the pad out of his shorts and replaces it, takes his shot, brushes his teeth, and then goes back to bed. 

He wakes up but briefly to order a pizza, gets up just long enough to answer the door and accept it, and returns to his bedroom to devour the whole thing while watching Animaniacs on Youtube. By the time he’s done, it’s just past 8 PM, and all that’s left for the day is to take another scalding shower and a shot of NyQuil and go back to sleep.

 

***

 

So it repeats the next day. He considers getting up to cook, but full-body aches have set in and his dysphoria is threatening to murder the dwindling threads of his sanity, so delivery again it is. 

At least he eats in the living room today.

 

***

 

The third day, he wakes up to his phone going off at 9 AM.    
  
“What,” he grumbles.

“Gav, if you’re gonna call in, you actually have to call in,” Tina says.    
  
“Fowler knows I’m out sick. I’ll be back when I’m back.”   
  
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you if he busts you the instant you walk back in here.” A beat passes. “You doing okay?”   
  
“Surviving. Feel like shit.”   
  
“Hope it stops soon,” she replies. “Lemme know if you need anything.”   
  
“I’ll see you soon,” he says by way of accepting, and they hang up.

Gavin attempts to check Facebook, but he feels like his frontal lobe is full of pop rocks, so he puts the phone down and pulls a pillow over his head.    
  
He wakes up sweating four hours later. 

It’s almost a lather-rinse-repeat of what’s becoming a routine, right up until there’s a knock at his door around 6. He hasn’t ordered any food yet, so he’s a little hesitant to open it.

A check through the peephole shows Hank Anderson’s scruffy face. 

He cracks open the door the width of the chain. “Did Fowler send you?” he says, sounding a little more mocking and bitter than he means to. 

“Don’t give me that, Reed.” He holds up a sixer by two fingers. “Lemme in.”

He closes the door, unchains it, and opens it, but doesn’t move to let Hank inside. “Y’know,” he says, “Tina brought me like at least $40 worth of takeout and a fifth of whiskey. You’re really gonna bribe me with beer?”

Hank pulls two chocolate bars out of the side of the pack and holds them up. “Tina said to bring you these, too.”

“That’s the most stereotypical bullshit.”   
  
“They’re 80%.”   
  
“Give it.”

Gavin takes the chocolate and the beer and lets Hank follow him inside. The pack goes in the fridge, one bottle for him and one for Hank saved out between his fingers. He breaks off a square of the chocolate and leaves the rest on the counter.    
  
“So what  _ do  _ you want?” Gavin asks, handing a bottle to Hank and falling onto the couch.    
  
Hank sits down next to him, a little stiffly.    
  
“Been thinking,” Hank says. He pops the bottle with the opener on his keychain, then offers to open Gavin’s as well. 

“What about?” Gavin asks, biting back a thousand sarcastic responses. The beer is ice cold, fresh out of a cooler. Light fruity wheat. It’s definitely not Hank’s beer of choice, but Gavin has to wonder if Hank really has him pegged that well or if this was Tina’s tip-off too. 

“Been looking at finances since the divorce went through. Was over quick, nothing to fight about. Split everything, she’s getting an apartment, I don’t know yet if I’m gonna keep the house or sell it. There’s too much...in it, y’know?”   
  
Gavin sinks into the couch and sucks on the chocolate melting against his fingertips. “Sure,” he says. 

“I mean, we had Cole in private school. Easier on him. Even splitting up his college fund, that’s another ten grand I’m not gonna have to spend this year.” Hank takes a long pull on the beer. He hasn’t really looked at Gavin this whole time, but he’s not really watching the TV. More staring through it. “I got no desire to do anything with it for myself.”

Something catches in Gavin’s chest. He can’t identify it. His head buzzes, but surely it’s just the booze on an almost-empty stomach. 

“So what I’m saying is, I guess...” Hank takes another swig and looks at his knees. “That surgery you were talking about. How long would it take you to get a consultation?”   
  
Gavin’s ears ring. He leans down to set the bottle on the floor and folds his hands behind his head, elbows on his knees. “There’s no way,” he says, his voice catching. 

“What, the waiting lists that long?”   
  
“No—” Gavin scrubs his hands over his head and presses his fingers against his eyes. “No, I mean—I can’t. I’d feel like shit taking it from you. There’s no way.”

“Look, Reed, I’m not planning on doing a damn thing with it except throwing it into retirement or some shit so I don’t empty out a liquor store. And my retirement fund doesn’t exactly need it.”

“I don’t have anybody to help me out after surgery.”   
  
“You got Tina, right? And, hell, you got me, if you, y’know, need me. I’ll hire you a plastic nurse if it’d make you feel better.”

Gavin curls his lip and makes a sharp noise. “Fuck no.”

“Didn’t think so.” 

The couch shuffles, and Gavin pulls his hands away from his face, blurry bright splotches giving way to Hank standing up as if to leave. He watches Hank belt the last of the beer.

“Anyway, offer’s on the table. Think about it.”  Hank makes for the door, but pauses, shuffles a bit, and looks back at Gavin. “And do me a favour, show the fuck up at the office tomorrow. Fowler’s about to dump all your shit on me.”

Gavin snorts. “You think you couldn’t handle it?”   
  
“Do I look like the kind of man who needs overtime?”

Hank heads out without formally saying goodbye. Gavin’s head spins. All the feeling in his body fades. He feels a little floaty. 

No more binding would mean he could pull longer shifts, maybe scrape up the extra for a hysto, too, by the end of the year. But god, that’d be asking not just money but time from Hank, and he’d have to calculate total expenses anyway...figures he could probably afford the consults to make himself feel better, but— 

God. He’d be an idiot not to take Hank up on it. 

He’d just feel indebted for life, is all, no big deal.

_ Sleep on it,  _ he tells himself, then goes to order dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delay. here i thought, sure, i can write fanfic and deal with finishing up my degree at the same time. TURNS OUT I WAS WRONG. fingers crossed the next one won't be a multi-month wait.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a short chapter and so i apologise for it taking so long to come out with. i mostly didn't wanna keep you guys waiting any longer. i love you all and appreciate your patience. also, NO BETA WE DIE LIKE MEN.
> 
> shout out to discord (and especially Stark and Church) for their help.

Surgery is scheduled for late September in Ann Arbor.

Tina goes with Gavin to every consult, meeting, everything, because it’s better than giving himself an hour drive to overthink and freak out both ways.

Hank’s been...friendly, but not overly so. His debit card weighs heavy in Gavin’s wallet, easier than setting up a billing schedule. There’s been coffee. There’s been Hank bringing Gavin his morning double, there’s been Gavin bringing Hank a cappuccino after lunch. They don’t talk much on the job. 

Tina mentions, offhand, that half the office thinks they’re fucking. 

Gavin wishes. Gavin so, so wishes. 

Every opportunity to suggest it, to express it, to corner Hank and ask if he only fucked him because he was drunk and desperate, every blow Gavin’s given to a silver bear in a bar wishing it was Hank, everything. Every time, Gavin backs off, anxiety welling up in his throat. Better to let himself wish than to ask outright and get an answer he doesn’t want.    
  
“It was a mistake,” he hears Hank say, when he plays out how the conversation might go. “No, I’m not interested in you. I’m making up for it by throwing money at you. I don’t want you. I never did.”

But the conversations don’t happen, Gavin doesn’t give them the opportunity to happen. He just argues with a wall in the shower, playing out the inevitable hypothetical over and over and over. 

Hank sets a coffee on his desk in mid September and lingers just long enough for Gavin to look up from his computer. 

“Did you, uh. Want something?” Gavin asks. 

“One more week, huh?”

“Yeah. Yeah, about.”

“Was thinkin’,” Hank muses. “I still got PTO. You need somebody to go with you?”

Gavin drums his fingers idly on the desk next to the coffee cup. “Tina was supposed to,” he says. “But.”   
  
“Yeah,” Hank says. “You send her my condolences, would ya?”   
  
“Yeah.”

He picks up the coffee and takes the lid off to blow on it. The hotel room is booked, has been for two months. It’d be stupid of him to be by himself in a double without someone to bring him food. He’s not mad at Tina, exactly. Family emergencies happen. He’s more mad that the scheduling conflict means he can’t be with her, rather than her being with him. 

Shit happens.

“If you’ve got nothing better to do,” Gavin says. “And you don’t mind post-op grossness.”

“Won’t be the worst thing I’ve voluntarily stayed through,” Hank replies.

Gavin sips his coffee, then answers, “Okay.”

 

***

 

Gavin should not have said okay.

Getting winded walking up to his own apartment was bad enough, but now Hank’s got him in a fucking bridal carry because he couldn’t catch his breath to protest and Hank’s just hauling him up two flights of stairs like he weighs nothing and it’s a fucking  _ problem.  _

Hank sets him down in front of his door, tells him, “I’m gonna get our bags, I’ll be right back up,“ and leaves Gavin standing there dumbstruck and dizzy for a few minutes.

Gavin tips his head against the door and fumbles with his keys, flipping through the ring for his damn door key. 

He nearly trips over Burrito coming in the door. 

“Whoa—hey—come  _ on—” _

The usually quiet cat continues screaming at him and doing figure eights around his ankles, presumably in an attempt to lead him to her bowl. There’s no way it’s empty, he filled up the feeder tank before he left. She should have been fine. 

Gavin makes it as far as the sofa and decides she’s not worth the fall risk. He slumps down into the cushions. Burrito leaps into his lap, and she’s still yelling when Hank gets to the door. 

“Shit,” he says, dropping their bags by the door. “Forgot you had a cat.”

“Please do something with her. She’ll probably run if you get too close.”

Hank chuckles. The sound shoots through Gavin in a way that’s completely unfair given current circumstances preventing him from doing any strenuous activity. But Hank approaches, Burrito scrambles, and Hank sits next to him.

“So,” Hank says. “You need anything?”

Gavin grumbles a no, or a sound indicating such, anyway. He paws for the remote, which is not where he left it but knocked in the floor, and it hurts stooping over to get it but he does it anyway, goddamnit, and flips the TV on. 

Sinking into the sofa turns into leaning on Hank’s shoulder, and the next thing Gavin knows, he’s waking up the next day in his own bed, stripped down to his shorts and t-shirt. He grabs his phone to check the time—nearly noon, christ, he’s been out for probably 15 hours. There’s a text on his phone from Hank.    
  
_ Holler if you need anything. I’ll be by after work.  _

Gavin hates how  _ nice  _ Hank’s being. Not because of the niceness itself, exactly, but because he’s treating Gavin like his kid or something, like the last few months have all been, and Gavin’s just...tired of “this is not a thing” not being a thing. 

He texts Tina instead. 

_ You on lunch yet? _

The response is immediate.  _ Hi, Tina, how are you, we haven’t spoken in three days! _

_ Shut up I just woke up _

_ Haven’t gone yet. I’ll stop by. You doing okay? _

_ Hungry. Pain. OK tho.  _ He pauses, then sends another.  _ You ok? _

_ Yeah. ttyl. _

Gavin cautiously rolls onto his side, decides it’s a bad idea, and rolls back onto his back. He really needs to pee, but maybe he can wait until Tina gets here. Needs to eat something so he can take some meds, but the kitchen is too far to get to without taking the meds first. Fuck.

It’s fine. He’ll live.

He tries to focus on Facebook, but scrolls for fifteen minutes without processing any of it because every inch of his body is screaming at him about something different. He gets up, drags himself to the bathroom, and then immediately goes back to bed. 

 

***

 

Tina brings him lunch, he takes his painkillers, and they probably kept talking for a while but Gavin can’t remember. He finds consciousness again when Hank announces his presence from the living room. Gavin makes a note to have everyone’s keys to his apartment destroyed as soon as this is over. 

“Bedroom,” Gavin calls back.

Hank comes in with dinner in hand for both of them. Clearly he’s planning on sticking around for a while, not just making this a hit and run. Gavin could have hoped. 

“How’s work?” Gavin asks.    
  
“Pretty quiet without you stirring up trouble,” Hank quips, and sits on the edge of the bed. Gavin shoves himself up and props his pillows behind him before accepting the styrofoam box in Hank’s outstretched hand. 

“Do you honestly believe you’re funny?” Gavin says. 

“Nah.” Hank opens his box and they both eat in silence for a few minutes. 

Gavin’s appetite is shot and he hates it, but he gives it an attempt anyway. At least, until he starts feeling actually ill. He sets the box aside.    


“Not that I don’t appreciate you helping me out,” Gavin says, “But what’s your motivation?”

Hank glances up from his food, then pauses and sets the box to his side. “What do you mean?”

“This isn’t the kind of favour coworkers do for each other, y’know? This is, bare minimum, good friends.”

“We’re not friends?” Hank says flatly, an eyebrow raised. 

“You know what I mean.”

“You mean, I’ve had my dick in you, and are we gonna keep ignoring that?”

Gavin can feel his cheeks burning. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah.”

“Hell, I don’t know, Gavin. Now ain’t the time to be talking about it anyway, I don’t think you’re cleared for—”

“I’m not saying  _ now _ , dipshit, I’m saying—you know what? Nevermind.”

“Why is it I can’t get in 15 feet of you without an argument?”

“You know why.”

“Yeah,” Hank says, “I do, but I don’t know if you do.”

“I don’t think I wanna actually throw up, and I’m already getting there, so if you could just—” Gavin tips his head back against the headboard. “Put my leftovers in the fridge, I need to get some more sleep.”

Hank picks up the box. “If you don’t want me coming over, tell me.”

“I do,” Gavin says. “I really do. I’m in pain, that’s all, I’m being an ass because I’m in pain.”

“You usually don’t need an excuse.” Hank stands and heads to the bedroom door. “But I get it. Get some rest, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Gavin answers, and watches Hank leave. 

He listens for the door to latch again, takes another dose of meds, and promptly passes out. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> degree completed, huzzah! the rest of life is kicking my ass. i'm not gonna make any promises or hopeful date-setting. i really do appreciate everyone who's stuck with this story, who's subscribed, commented, given kudos, anything at all. you're all wonderful. 
> 
> a few questions, if you wouldn't mind: 
> 
> -do you prefer the longer chapters but bigger waits, or would you like shorter chapters and less wait?
> 
> -would you all prefer to see more day-to-day details, or are you fine with the big time jumps?
> 
> -i'm thinking about cropping the tags for this fic down to only the ones relevant to the entirety of the story. would you rather me keep all the tags as-is even if they only apply part of one chapter, or would you rather see only a few tags for the fic as a whole?
> 
> thank you again, everyone. you're all amazing.


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